Sixty Times Sixty
by Mintwafflez
Summary: It wasn't even his own war. But he needed to go out there. - Austria & Prussia. Deathfic.


**Sixty Times Sixty**

I've loved Hetalia since there was only about 20 episodes in the anime.

I didn't grow to appreciate the seriousness of it until now. Deathfic of my favorite character just for my own amusement here.

* * *

Quarter past two.

Ludwig had been counting each individual click of the old grandfather clock, adding the low _to-ks_ together in his head to keep the fraying ends of sanity in check. 57,900 movements around the clock had been made since he stepped across the threshold and out into the battlefield of a war that was nowhere near being his.

The German growled, propping his chin on his knuckles, face twisted with too many emotions to describe. In his lap there was a gentle rhythm, a half time duet with the clock that continued to rise and fall as Feliciano slept. His fists had found holds above the blonde's abdomen, set firmly in the middle of his breast bone where they held on so tightly for such soft hands. The Italian was scared, almost as equally as he.

"Ve, Germany… Gilbert will come back, right?" It wasn't a question, it was a plead. Ludwig clawed at his face, upsetting stubble under his nails. He couldn't promise Italy that.

He could be very well lying if he said that.

* * *

In 16 hours, Gilbert had gone through the motions of forgetting what glory he thought war to hold. Maybe that should of happened sooner, he supposed, back when he was under Russia's rule and separated by a damn wall. His fingers were sore from too many trigger touches for a man that wasn't even supposed to be on the field anymore. Prussia was dissolved long ago.

He was the spitfire, the pinnacle of _awesome_. Destroyed within hours over a few measly pieces of metal and scarlet vitals. How uncool. It was a little more humiliating there was an Austrian in his arms, clad in the same 'patriotic fashion'. Pay back is a bitch, Roddy.

The Prussian refused to look down, fearing the bundle in his arms despite the ache it mounted on his shoulders next to the pull of his gun and pack. It was fine. His feet knew the way as they had a mind of their own, Gilbert was sure of this. Otherwise, how could he always get from bar to bar while perfectly shit faced, blond under one arm, red head in the other?

He had trust in them.

* * *

64,800. Ludwig didn't like that number, too sharp, that 'sixty-four'. Two clashing tones that played largely together when spoken. The sound of the door being kicked off its hinge, followed by the sound of footsteps on carpet. They worked in the same fashion.

"_East!_"

Feliciano was still clinging to his chest, largely supported by his own arms tightly woven around Ludwig's neck, his legs clutched closely on the other end where reflex had scooped him up. Gilbert found this amusing – but who's load weighed more? He wasn't sure where the musician managed to pack the weight, _mein gott_.

* * *

He was bent over him now, supported on his elbows, only a hairs inch between their chests. It had been enough to make the Italian cry. Ludwig was trying his best not to. In a tangent of team work, his steady hands had accompanied Gilbert's to remove his coat, the bloody material some sadistic flag hanging off the door knob now. Somehow, without realizing it, he'd removed the aristocrat's shoes as well, dirt clods defecting to his finger pads and dusting across the bed spread.

Somewhere in that time, Ludwig had given up on counting the clock's mournful sounds. Now, instead of accumulating, he was subtracting. How many _tik_-_tok_s were left until his brother, bent and broken on top of Roderich lost it all. His composure that made him the self proclaimed 'awesomest'.

* * *

Gilbert was screaming. He had been screaming since he knelt down before him and propped the man up against the remains of that brick wall. Mentally or physically, a scream was a scream. He might of prompted Feliciano to sob harder, or for Ludwig to place a hand on his chest and try to pry them apart, but he wasn't aware of them anymore.

Even as an empire, he thought guns were dirty tactics. Muskets and Rifle's weren't fair weapons. These days, what happened for swords and paring to be replaced with AK-47's and hand grenades? The white haired man fisted his hands into the sloppy bandages he'd encased Roderich's chest in, stained scarlet from the six shattered bullet holes that clustered over his left breast.

His fault, fault fault _fault_. Gilbert could remember the words falling from his lips even in perfect emphasis – "_Like _hell_ you could fuck up Russia, specs_!" He should of known by know anything told to the man while unstable was an challenge, not a warning. The Prussian had said it for he knew the after math either way. Why fight a war for Hungary?

Then he realized that was a bullshit question, he had loved her too. Six tears fell on each side of the gun wounds.

"G-God dammit, you priss! Wake up! I'm _not_ crying over you anymore! Get the fairy dust outta your ass and work your _damn_ witch craft already!" His dirty, dirty, _guilty _hands pounded against Roderich's shoulders, and his mouth created a vicious torment on the ears of the alive.

Ludwig couldn't stop him. Feliciano had disappeared.

* * *

The phone was ringing in the background, white noise like the clock any other morning. The Italian said he would handle it all, Mr. Austria had taught him how to answer phones correctly when he was little. For once in his life, he was actually sober to do so. Ludwig idly wondered who was crying on the other end.

Gilbert's hand was tracing small circle's on Roderich's cold stomach, two fingers around the navel in wake it would be the most irritating thing ever if he was breathing. Actually, it would be _triple_ the nuisance, he thought grimly. For his own indecent exposure, the touching and the Prussian. A sickly laugh escaped him.

"Gilbert…" the blond breathed, as if saying his brother's name would accomplish anything of comfort. Although the two had grown as countries hating each other, _defeating _each other, it was so hard to deny they had ever been less than silent friends. Life would be unbalanced without the other, really.

While Ludwig was close, it was apparent Gilbert was closer. His eyes followed the other German as he stood up, shifting weight across his shoulders to hover delicately above the man's face. He was at an angle that Germany could see his lips move and form the words.

"You never say good bye, bastard. I thought you would be capable of making an exception for once, seeing how it was your god damn death bed." His words were brittle and uncharacteristic of him.

Slowly he bowed and pressed one meaningful kiss to the man's temple, on top of the grit, blood and sweat. '_It's going to be so damn hard to live without you._'


End file.
